


The sun shines on everyone (everyone love yourself to death)

by felinedetached



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Touch Peter Hale, Banshee Powers, Character Study, Depression, Found Family, Gen, I can, Love don't fix everything, Masks Made of Makeup, Peter Hale is Bad Touch Man, alliteration ftw babes, but finding a family and lowkey learning to laugh might, but like at the same time, i can't believe that's a tag, i totally can, idk what else to tag this with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 08:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16404563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinedetached/pseuds/felinedetached
Summary: Lydia can't remember when it was that her world dulled. She can't remember when vibrant colours became shells of themselves; when vibrant people became nothing more thanpeople, just unimportant beings passing her as she lived her life. She can't remember when she lost interest in usually-interesting books and movies and tv shows; can't remember when the things she used to pride herself on—her looks, her education, herknowledge—became things she didn't care about. Doesn't care about.She can't remember when she lost herself; can't remember a time before this.Sometimes, that scares her.Lydia Martin is a perfect girl in an imperfect world. Or is it the other way around?





	The sun shines on everyone (everyone love yourself to death)

**Author's Note:**

> > _Mouth is made of metal, metal, metal_   
>  _Pocket full of yellow, yellow_   
>  _Pocket full of gold_   
>  _And I hope you find_   
>  _I hope you find your dreams_   
>  _And darling never settle, settle, settle_   
>  _Chasing down the devil, devil_   
>  _Chasing down the gods_   
>  _And I hope you find_   
>  _I hope you find your dream_
> 
> — [Gold, Sir Sly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q5_47eLxb8o)
> 
> And a bonus Lydia playlist — [woman of the fairy mound](https://open.spotify.com/user/felinedetached/playlist/5UCa0kwEO31HtMUE7GP88z?si=Nzl6GBQLSMy_KpIzTUV98Q)

Lydia can't remember when it was that her world dulled. She can't remember when vibrant colours became shells of themselves; when vibrant people became nothing more than _people_ , just unimportant beings passing her as she lived her life. She can't remember when she lost interest in usually-interesting books and movies and tv shows; can't remember when the things she used to pride herself on—her looks, her education, her _knowledge_ —became things she didn't care about. Doesn't care about.

She can't remember when she lost herself; can't remember a time before this.

Sometimes, that scares her.

* * *

Intellectually, Lydia knows she's probably depressed. She knows it was probably kickstarted by her parent's divorce, by her father's harsh words— _"Choose, Lydia. And choose carefully. If you pick wrongly, I will not be here for you."_ —and she knows that it was probably amplified by everything that came after that. But knowing things and thinking them are two very different things, and so she thinks: _I'm broken._

She thinks: _Nothing matters._

She thinks: _I am nothing more than what I show the world._

And so she shows the world her best self.

(Or, at least, she shows the world what it _thinks_ is her best self.)

* * *

Lydia wears designer fashions; expensive makeup; perfect hair. Or, she doesn't wear them so much as she shields herself with them—a routine to push away the listless carelessness that leads to destruction and ruin. She knows it leads that way because when she stops, when her makeup is minimal and she throws together whatever's in her closet; when she stops caring about school and what others think of her, a scream builds in her throat. It builds and builds and it never lets up until she lets it out, and she _won't_ let it out—she _can't_ let it out—so she prevents it from happening altogether.

She is Lydia Martin, and she is a leader. She is Lydia Martin, and she is put-together; forever perfect, a girl made of a 5.0 GPA, perfect makeup and a killer smile.

She is Lydia Martin, and no matter how much she wants to, she will not cry herself to sleep.

* * *

Lydia knows what’s expected of her. Of course she does—nothing less than perfection is expected of her, and nothing less than perfection is what she will demand of those around her. So, of course, she must fulfil the profile. The stereotype.

Popular girl; pretty and mean, dating the captain of whatever is the most celebrated and appreciated sport at her high school. Whatever sport they _win at._

She is Lydia Martin, and Lydia Martin does not date losers.

Girls like Lydia Martin—perfect girls with perfect smiles and perfect lives—date boys like Jackson Whittemore—captains and winners, the boys who are charming and handsome but, in the end, so very, _very_ mean—so that’s exactly what Lydia does. That isn’t to say that she doesn’t truly love him—she does; she loves him even through his harsh words and harsher dumping; loves him even as he ignores her in preparation for some ‘big change’ that he refuses to tell anyone the details of—and it isn’t to say that their breakup didn’t truly hurt her for reasons more than just _we don’t fit the stereotype anymore._

Lydia’s just so _tired,_ and when people look at her and think so little of her she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

* * *

Jackson breaks up with her just before the Spring Formal, and that _would_ be kind of okay—she could handle it, at least—but then Allison makes her ask Stiles Stilinski. It doesn’t fit; doesn’t fit with the perfect life she’s built herself from the ground up in this fucked-up town where she’s just as likely to be mauled by a wild animal as she is kissed. It doesn’t fit and she doesn’t know what to do about it.

She goes anyway; goes with Stiles—Mieczyslaw; never say she doesn’t do her research—because it was _Allison_ who asked, and Lydia would do anything for Allison.

She goes, and Jackson goes with Allison—just as friends, but it still _stings—_ but she goes and she dances and she has _fun;_ against all odds, she has _fun._

She has fun, right up until Peter Hale finds her on the lacrosse field and digs teeth far, _far_ too big to be human into her neck.

 _Mauled by animals,_ she thinks, a hysteric kind of laughter echoing in her brain as everything fades to black.

(The last thing she remembers is Stiles’ voice, calling her name—calling from somewhere that seems to be well in the distance. He’s not.

The last thing she remembers is Stiles telling her to run.

The last thing she remembers is that she didn’t.)

* * *

When she wakes up, she is, of course, in hospital. Pain shoots through her neck and shoulders, a terrible, sharp thing. It doesn’t ache so much as it rips into her; tears through skin and muscle and bone like an echo of Peter Hale’s teeth.

She is Lydia Martin and she is on fire—burning with a pain she can’t avoid, with a desire for vengeance and blood that she’s never felt before. The idea of vengeance against a monster scares her though; scares her in a way that chills her very bones and replaces her blood with shards of ice.

She is Lydia Martin and her veins are frozen solid. She is Lydia Martin and with each breath, her hospital room grows colder. She is Lydia Martin and she is so very, _very_ cold.

* * *

It’s stupid, what does her in, in the end. It’s stupid and so very, very obviously a hallucination; so very, very obviously not real. It’s blood in the water and dark hair between her fingers and a dead body forcing its way into her bath through the drain.

It’s so much more than improbable. It’s impossible.

But she screams and she screams and she screams; she screams because that’s all she’s good for, in the end, and she screams because no one who cares will ever hear her anyway. She screams because it doesn’t matter; even as glass shatters and the walls bleed _it doesn’t matter,_ and her ears ache but she doesn’t remember much more than this.

(She is Lydia Martin and her dreams are death and blood and prophecy untold; she is Lydia Martin and she is Cassandra of Troy reborn; chosen one of Apollo and giver of prophecies that are not to be believed.)

* * *

When she wakes up again, she is more than just cold. She is _freezing,_ and naked, and in the middle of the preserve.

If she remembers correctly—and she does; she is Lydia Martin and her memory is (or, at least, should be) legendary—the Hale family owns the preserve. Lives on it, even.

And if she remembers correctly—she does; of course she does—one of the Hales has returned to Beacon Hills.

(And another has woken from a six-year coma; woken to become a madman intent on murder and ruin—a madman with fangs teeth too large to be human.)

As much as she wants to be Lydia, Prom Queen, the popular, put-together ruler of Beacon Hills High School, she wants to be warm and safe and dressed more and if that means letting Derek Hale find her wandering around naked in his woods, then so be it. If her continued survival means that the school will know her as the mad girl who went wandering naked on Hale family property, well.

So be it.

So Lydia makes herself walk over the uneven ground; makes herself ignore the aches and pains as her neck twinges and rocks and branches dig into her bare feet. She makes herself ignore the cold and the damp and the ache in her back from her breasts, and she makes her way towards where light indicates civilisation of some kind, and she hopes it is Derek Hale and not a creepy rapist camped out in the woods.

(It is neither.)

She stumbles across Stiles—her date for that night, a distant part of her remembers—and his dad, and she says, in as haughty a voice as she can manage, “Well? Isn’t anyone going to get me a coat?”

When Stiles stumbles over himself to do just that, the satisfaction is dull. Numb, like her. Numb like her fingers and her toes and her nose and her ears and her heart.

She smiles when she accepts the Sheriff’s coat from him, slips into the warmth and tries to make sure it reaches her eyes even if it doesn’t reflect her heart.

Lydia’s always been good at acting. How is this much different from being on a stage?

* * *

The voices and the visions don’t go away. They don’t go away, and eventually, they start becoming _real._

Lydia isn’t stupid. She’s a perfect girl with perfect grades and a perfect GPA. She’s _smart,_ damnit, and she knows that Peter Hale wasn’t human. She knows that after a bite like the one that tore into her neck and left behind the afterimage of glowing red eyes and fangs larger than life, she can’t be human anymore.

(She knows the stories. She’s more than just math and history and other subjects taught in school. She _knows things;_ she’s _curious._ She bothers to learn mythology and legend because it’s interesting, and now it pays off. Now, she is Lydia Martin and she has a list of things Peter Hale could be, and a list of things he could have turned her into.

It’s a long list.)

She’s a perfect girl with perfect grades; the epitome of everything society wants her to be.

She’s Lydia Martin, and she’s not human. Not anymore.

* * *

Getting to know Stiles is… interesting, to say the least. He’s still very much in love with her, but he’s better at. Not hiding it, but. Being respectful, almost. Making sure he doesn’t push her into anything. He’s better at being able to see her as a friend, even if he wants something more.

(Lydia doesn’t mind that he wants something more. Most people do.)

But then she actually gets to talking to him—partially because he is, quite obviously, entwined with whatever supernatural bullshit is going on in Beacon Hills and partially because, as he showed at the dance, he _knows_ her; knows her more than Jackson ever did and despite all the warning signs, she _wants_ that—and he’s pretty funny. Interesting, too; he hyper focuses on things that Lydia would never have even _thought_ of looking into.

She likes picking his brain, and she can tell that he likes picking hers. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship. Symbiosis, if you will.

But, as with all things, there’s a catch: Stiles doesn’t know that Lydia knows. He doesn’t know, and he won’t tell her anything and she _hates_ to pretend to be dumber than she is but she’s had enough practice; what, with Jackson and with the other girls she used to talk to.

So she pretends.

And then a boy that no one else sees starts talking to her.

* * *

“What are you in for?” he asks her in the counselor’s office, smiles when she refuses to answer. He’s quiet, but when the counselor—Ms. Morrell, Lydia reminds herself—opens the door, she never even looks at him. Sure, he’s quiet, but no one is quite that quiet.

When she sees him next, he returns her missing dog (dognapped is Lydia’s true suspicion) to her and gifts her a purple flower from her own garden. She wanders inside, twirling it in her fingers, because she’s sure that at least that’s real.

“What are you doing with your hands?” her mom asks, and Lydia looks up, holds up the flower to show her mom and realises, in that instant, that she’s not holding anything.

“Oh,” Lydia says. “Nothing, I guess.”

Her mom, predictably, takes her excuse at face-value. Lydia doesn’t know whether she wants to laugh or cry.

“Night, mom,” Lydia says, and then stays up all night researching things that no one else can see.

* * *

It is a combination of her late-night researching spree and sheer desperation that makes her turn to Stiles and say, “I don’t know if this is real.”

He looks at her, but he doesn’t question it: he just teaches her to count her fingers; teaches her all the ways to tell what’s real and what’s not.

It works until she wanders to a place she’s never seen before and the boy comes up to her again. He presses far to close; straight into her personal space. He kisses her, and when he draws back, he is Peter Hale.

Lydia has five fingers on each hand and ten in total. She can feel the wood planks under her feet—harsher than they should be, until she blinks and the pristine but empty house becomes a burnt-out shell of itself.

She’s awake. This is real.

(She’s not mad, and she wants to cry. She’s being haunted, and she wants to scream. Peter Hale won’t let her do either.)

* * *

“You tell anyone,” Peter says; drags cold fingers over her neck and shoulders and leans in to whisper in her ear as she looks out over the patio, “this happens.”

The room flickers—the _view_ flickers—and changes, until she’s standing in a pool of blood. She’s standing in a pool of her _classmate’s_ blood; standing staring out over a massacre on her front porch. Lydia _knows_ it’s not real; knows that she’s seeing things, but she also knows this: Peter isn’t showing her this just to scare her. He’s controlled her before, taken her from her house to his. He made her think she walked only a few steps to get from her backyard to the Hale house, deep in the Preserve. Peter messed with her sense of time and space and distance; he makes her see things and he is slowly, slowly convincing her that there’s something more wrong with her than the pervasive numbness in her brain and in her limbs.

Lydia doesn’t doubt that he could easily make her host a party and kill all of her guests.

“Okay,” she says, voice hoarse. “I understand.”

“Good,” Peter replies, and she feels a slow, fanged smile form where his lips are pressed to her shoulder.

She shudders at the feeling, but she doesn’t dare to move.

* * *

She’s moved on from Peter’s visions—not really; he’s still _there,_ telling her what to do and showing her what will happen if she doesn’t—graduated from illusionary dead people to _real ones._

The first time she finds a dead body, she calls the police and then she calls Stiles.

The second time she finds one, she calls Stiles first.

The third time, she screams and figures out what she is.

* * *

“You know,” Peter says, quiet. He’s almost wondering—startled, too, like he’d doubted her intelligence. Like he’d never expected her to figure it out herself. Lydia honestly isn’t that surprised that he’d thought that way.

She almost wishes she was.

“It’s not that difficult to figure out,” she says, “but now I’m wondering what _you_ are.”

Peter smiles, fangs peeking out from under his lips. “Well, I’m not human.”

Lydia laughs, harsh and brutal. “I know,” she says. “I knew from the moment you bit me.”

Peter’s laugh is a lot brighter than her own.

“I knew I was right to pick you,” he says. Lydia’s heart sinks. “We could rule the world together,” he whispers, lips brushing her ear. “We could do _anything.”_

There’s a pause; a pause with his arms around her, with his lips on her hair, with her stomach in her throat.

“We _will_ do _everything,”_ Peter says, and Lydia decides, then and there, that she will do everything in her power to stop him.

* * *

It’s not all that hard to figure out—she has _ears,_ after all, and she knows how to use them—that Scott’s not human, and that his boss, the vet, is... ‘in the know’, as it were. She knows Dr. Deaton; she takes Prada there. He’s the only vet in town, after all.

Knowing that he’s probably not human—at least, not entirely—answers a lot of questions about a lot of things. It’s almost a relief.

So Lydia takes Prada in for a checkup, and when it’s finished she looks at Dr. Deaton in the eyes and she says, “I’m a banshee, and I need your help.”

The vet looks at her; studies her, almost. It’s like he’s checking her loyalties, ensuring that she won’t hurt those he has to protect.

“What kind of help do you need?” he asks, still cautious. It’s entirely fair that he is, so Lydia won’t hold it against him, but it _is_ kind of irritating.

“There’s a group of some kind of Supernaturals in Beacon Hills,” she says, “I need their protection.”

“There’s no established groups-” Dr. Deaton starts, and Lydia laughs; not the same kind of laugh she’d made when Peter had been talking to her—it’s lighter than that, although almost as sardonic.

“Don’t lie,” she says, “I saw Erica Reyes at school and no one changes that much overnight. She hasn’t been to school since.” Lydia gives a humourless smile. “Stiles and Allison know something.” She hesitates. “Scott’s not human.”

Deaton looks at her again, assessing. Then he pulls out his phone, sends a text and gestures for her to sit down.

“Thank you,” she says primly, doing just that.

Ten minutes later, Derek Hale walks through the door. He completely ignores her, turning instead to Deaton and says, harsh and cold and demanding, “Why does she smell like Peter?”

Deaton shrugs, gesturing to Lydia. “Ask her,” he says.

Lydia shrugs as well; it’s not much of a reply, but it’s all she has with Peter’s words of warning. (With Peter’s threat, really. If she’s being honest with herself, she knows he’s not warning her—he was _never_ warning her. He’s threatening her. He always was.

Peter Hale isn’t the kind of guy who warns people. Peter Hale is the kind of guy who makes a threat and follows through.)

Derek throws his hands in the air, spinning to face Deaton again. “You said you had someone here who needs protection.” He’s practically growling now, his irritation blatant. It’s more entertaining than it has any right to be.

“That’s me,” Lydia says, waving. “Banshee, here. In need of supernatural protection, if you’re willing.”

Derek tilts his head, considering. “Tell me why you smell like Peter, and I’ll introduce you to the pack.”

 _Ah,_ Lydia thinks, comprehension rising, _werewolves._

“Isaac, Boyd and Erica, right? I go to school with them.” She smiles at his growl; pure and sweet and perfect, as she always is. “I might smell like Peter Hale because my name is Lydia Martin and he put me in the hospital, but I might smell like him for another reason too.”

Derek closes his eyes, and for a moment he looks exhausted enough that Lydia almost feels sorry for him. But then he opens them again and they’re flashing red, just like Peter’s and she can’t help her flinch.

“I am Alpha Hale of the Hale Pack,” he says eventually; speaking far more formally than Lydia had thought he would, “and I apologise for the transgressions of the previous Alpha. Know that he has received due punishment, and that you have a place in our Pack should you wish to take it.”

Lydia thinks for a moment, and then answers as best she can without true knowledge of how these things are supposed to go. “Thank you, Alpha Hale,” she says, “that knowledge pleases me greatly. I would accept your offer to join your Pack, if you will take me.”

Deaton nods at her, approval and encouragement emanating from him, and Lydia smiles, relieved. She must have done something right, then.

“Welcome to the Pack,” Derek says, and offers a hand. She takes it, because she doesn’t know what else to do, and he smiles at her. It’s strained, like smiling is something he’s not used to doing—like he’s like her, except he never really bothered to learn how to pretend.

“Thank you,” she says, and looking at him—looking at her new leader; her new _Alpha—_ she knows she made the right choice.

* * *

Erica greets her with a smile that is all teeth and fangs. Her eyes flash in what Lydia now knows is beta-gold. It’s a challenge; a way for Erica to say _look at me now, I’m better than I was before._ A way for her to show Lydia that she’s not someone who can be pushed around anymore—not that Lydia ever _did_ push her around.

That’s Jackson’s style, not hers.

(It’ll be more Jackson’s style now; with Derek’s bite circling the black blood that signifies a rejection or an unusual change through his bloodstream. Derek regrets biting Jackson, from what she can tell. It’s funny, almost—Lydia could have told him Jackson isn’t the kind of person anyone wants to have a power like this even _months_ ago.

No one listens to pretty girls, though.)

* * *

“Clever,” Peter says; a compliment that feels like ice water down her spine. “Very clever, fae-child.”

Lydia stands stock-still; doesn’t move even as Peter’s breath washes over her bare shoulders and his hands grip tighter and tighter on her arms. They’re going to bruise.

“You don’t fit, you know that?” he says, almost conversationally. “You’re no sweet-singing virgin, no old, shrouded virgin.”

“Lady Wilde got a few things wrong,” she says, knows at least one of the Pack can hear her from wherever they’re stationed. “Maybe you should look into Lady Fanshawe? She, after all, saw one first-hand.”

“Clever,” Peter says again, but it feels less like a compliment this time. “Later then, Lady Martin. I hope you know what you’ve brought about.”

Derek shoves his way into her room just as Peter fades from view. He steps aside to let Boyd into the room after him, even as he snarls—snarls at the scent of his uncle, left behind by a ghost. Boyd guides her downstairs, quiet and calm and steady, sits her at the kitchen bench and makes her a hot chocolate.

Lydia accepts the gift with shaking hands and smiles up at him.

“Thank you,” she says, because she’s really grateful—no one’s actually bothered to do anything like this for her before; not even her parents when she woke the whole house up screaming. It’s a nice change.

“You’re Pack,” Boyd says, simultaneously brushing off the thanks and answering the question of why he did it with two words—two words that almost make it seem like he’s a mind-reader; a witch or wizard of some kind, plucking Lydia’s thoughts straight from her head.

She doesn’t know if she likes that or hates it.

(She doesn’t know if she only doesn’t mind because it’s Boyd; because it’s Boyd and he’s _Pack_ and he’d never do anything to hurt her.)

* * *

She doesn’t go to school that day. It’s the first time she’s missed school—other than when she was in hospital, of course. And when she saw what she now knows is Peter for the first time.

But the point is: she is Lydia Martin, and Lydia Martin doesn’t miss school for just anything. Lydia Martin doesn’t miss much school at all, in fact—hasn’t had a day off other than the aforementioned times.

She is Lydia Martin and she doesn’t go to school for no other reason than that she doesn’t want to.

* * *

Erica is, surprisingly, a lot more fun than Lydia had thought she’d be. Partially because epilepsy, unfortunately, doesn’t let you get out all that much and partially because, well, Lydia wasn’t very nice to Erica, way back when. She wasn’t _mean_ by any turn of the word, she just wasn’t particularly _nice,_ either.

Now, though; now it’s like that’s forgotten. Gone. Done and dusted, left behind like the dirty, unwanted trash that it is.

Now, Lydia lets Erica drape an arm over her shoulder, laughs and smiles and jokes and feels _actually happy,_ for once. Not the fake-happy that she’s used to, but actual _happiness._ It’s a novel feeling.

So she smiles and she laughs and she has fun; enjoys it while it lasts. Erica grins at her, all teeth and gold eyes, and Lydia smiles back and _wishes_ she has a way to show her heritage; show her _power._

(She’s not really in the mood for screaming.)

* * *

She doesn’t go home, either. She walks back to the abandoned subway station with Erica, shopping bags in hand and when they arrive she surveys the area with a _very_ critical eye.

“We’re fixing this,” she says, and Erica cheers.

“Oh, thank god,” she says, “I thought Derek would live here for like, ever.”

“He _lives_ here?” Lydia says, scandalised. “We’re definitely fixing this. The Hale’s were as rich as my family, before the fire. He can afford a _goddamn house.”_

“Oh, for sure,” Erica agrees, practically bouncing. “He’s just a bit of an idiot, sometimes. We love him—don’t give me that look, we _do_ —but he hasn’t quite realised that yet.”

Lydia never thought she’d see the day where she’d relate to someone like _Derek Hale,_ but here she is.

“Well,” she says, because this is a better option than revealing her thoughts, “We’ll just have to convince him then, won’t we?”

* * *

Peter still hovers, sometimes. But when he does, he’s chased off pretty quickly—be it by Erica, by Boyd and his hot chocolate, by Isaac who comes to her for romance advice sometimes (boy’s got a thing for Scott; it’s kind of adorable) or Derek himself, somehow always able to smell Peter when he arrives.

Lydia learns, here; learns what it was like _before_ everything numbed. It’s surprisingly nice. Or, well, not surprisingly nice—it’s just as nice as she’d thought it would be, without everything as muted as it had been—but she feels like a blanket has been lifted from over all five of her senses, and it lights up the world.

“I think I love you guys,” she says one night, with Erica over her legs and Isaac by her side; with Derek in the armchair by the fireplace in his new house; with Boyd setting two hot chocolates by her side.

She’s entirely unsurprised to realise she means it.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://felinedetached.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/felineDetached) or yell at me to make a teen wolf discord, i'm all chill.
> 
> thank you for reading, i hope you liked this!!
> 
>  **bonus basic banshee stuff:**  
>  \- they're known as the 'fairy woman' or 'the woman of the fairy mound'  
> \- sometimes they're seen with a grey cloak over a green dress with eyes red from weeping, sometimes they're dressed in white with red hair and a ghastly complexion (which was lady fanshawe's vision)  
> \- lady wilde wrote:
>
>> Sometimes the banshee assumes the form of some sweet singing virgin of the family who died young, and has been given the mission by the invisible powers to become the harbinger of coming doom to her mortal kindred. Or she may be seen at night as a shrouded woman, crouched beneath the trees, lamenting with veiled face, or flying past in the moonlight, crying bitterly. And the cry of this spirit is mournful beyond all other sounds on earth, and betokens certain death to some member of the family whenever it is heard in the silence of the night.
> 
> \- typically they're actually mourning family members!  
> \- the welsh version is cyhyraeth, a disembodied voice that is doleful and disagreeable  
> \- sometimes the cyhyraeth says "fy ngŵr fy ngŵr" (my husband my husband), "fy mhlentyn, fy mhlentyn bach" (my child my little child) or "fy ngwraig fy ngwraig" (my wife my wife). other times they just say the name of who died.  
> \- with most versions of a banshee they have to scream your death three times (obviously not the case with teen wolf but like still cool!)
> 
> anyway that's your banshee facts for this fic i guess


End file.
